


Kiss Me (and I’ll Kiss You Harder)

by the_rat_wins



Series: No Lie [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Soulmates, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4203684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian is perfect for him. Ian, who’s never been the best or the fastest or the smartest at anything. He’s perfect for Mickey.<br/>And he’s going to prove it.</p><p>(More Ian/Mickey shenanigans in the "can’t lie to your soulmate" 'verse.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me (and I’ll Kiss You Harder)

When Mickey asked him to wait, Ian didn’t realize that what he really meant was “I’m not going to talk to you for a week, and if you look at me or try to talk to me, I’m going to pretend you don’t exist.”

The Kash and Grab has never been safer, because Mickey won’t risk getting within speaking distance of Ian. And because Kash is always up front now, since him and Ian have come to a screeching halt.

How did Ian ever think that Kash was what he wanted? What he wants is Mickey. But Mickey’s not here.

Ian doesn’t know what he did wrong. After that afternoon, he’d gotten dressed and left the Milkovich house, and everything had seemed fine.

Sure, Mickey had ducked him when Ian tried to kiss him good-bye—but he’d done it with a grin. Not like he was mad at Ian. Or, worse, disgusted by him.

Ian keeps dreaming about him. No one’s ever mentioned that as a side effect of meeting your soulmate. So it’s probably just Ian being a loser.

It usually starts with them on the couch, playing video games or watching some stupid action movie. Sometimes Mandy is there. Sometimes they’re eating or smoking, and Ian would think it was just an afternoon of them all hanging out together—except that he can always feel Mickey, feel his eyes brushing against Ian’s body like a touch. It’s a constant warm tension, slow and heavy.

Then either Mandy will say something and leave, or Mickey will stand up and walk into his bedroom, throwing a look over his shoulder that has Ian following close behind.

And then they’re alone.

For a few seconds, they just stare at each other, eyes locked hard, like a challenge.

Mickey’s eyes are so blue. And in his dream, Ian can look at them for as long as he wants, until he feels like he has to look away or else . . . he doesn’t know.

Sometimes he’s the first one to reach out and touch, but more often—almost always—it’s Mickey. Mickey’s hands hot on his shoulders, his waist, tugging at his clothes, sliding under his shirt, pressing against his arms, his back.

“Come on,” Mickey says to him, over and over, quietly. “Come on, touch me, come on.”

Ian never realized that being hot for someone was literal. He can feel it thrumming between them, in the way they breathe at each other, in the blood pounding in his ears.

He runs his hands over the hard swell of Mickey’s chest, over the smooth skin of his stomach.

Mickey takes him by the shoulders and pushes him onto the bed. Then he reaches down to grab hold of Ian’s hips. His tongue flicks out, runs over his lips.

“Do it,” Ian whispers, staring at Mickey’s mouth. Mickey grins, and lowers his head, swallows him down.

“Ah!” Ian cries out softly, and Mickey pets soothingly at his hipbone, his fingers rubbing back and forth. Ian’s whole body pulses with heat under the gentle touch. “Fuck,” he says. _“Fuck.”_

Mickey slides his lips up and down with slick pressure, his eyes fluttering shut. Ian tips his head back and tries not to thrust into Mickey’s hot mouth, but it’s almost impossible.

He pushes forward just a little, until the head of his dick barely brushes the softness at the back of Mickey’s throat. “Oh my god,” he says.

Mickey’s hands press him down against the bed again, gently but firmly.

“Sorry,” Ian whispers, and Mickey half chuckles—as much as he can with Ian’s dick in his mouth. It feels amazing, but Ian manages to stay still this time.

“Hey,” Ian says, after another couple of long, trembling seconds. Mickey ignores him and keeps moving. Ian groans. “God.” He runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair, cups one hand around the back of his neck. “Hey, come here.”

Mickey finally slides off with a filthy sound and wipes his mouth, his lips red and wet. Ian stares, fixated, his breath coming in unsteady gasps.

“What’s up?” Mickey says, and shit, his voice is hoarse from Ian’s dick in his throat.

“I, uh—” Ian can’t remember what he wanted to say anymore. Just stares dumbly at Mickey’s mouth. “I just wanted to—”

“To what?” Mickey says, and his eyes are lingering on Ian’s mouth. He knows. He _knows_ , so why can’t he just—

Ian leans forward, ready to press his mouth against Mickey’s.

And that’s when he wakes up. Every single time.

Blinking up at the ceiling in the darkness of his bedroom, Ian lets out a frustrated noise. “Fuck,” he whispers, as quietly as he can. He doesn’t want to wake Lip up too, not now. He sighs resignedly, and wraps a hand around himself.

It’s not as good as Mickey would be. It _should_ be Mickey. Ian grits his teeth. _What the fuck?_ he thinks at Mickey, wherever the hell he is, whatever the hell he’s doing.

 

Mickey rolls over for what has to be the sixth time. He can’t sleep. The sheets feel rough and itchy. He should have washed them after . . .

After.

He thinks maybe he can still smell Ian on them, even though it’s been a week.

Lying on his stomach, Mickey grinds his hips against the bed, annoyed at his half-hard dick, annoyed at everything. He needs to stop thinking about it, needs to stop replaying the images of Ian’s body—his dick, even better than what Mickey had imagined—all the things Ian said to him, every look he gave him.

As soon as Ian left, Mickey had found himself sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands. It was like coming down from the world’s best buzz in two seconds flat. He felt heavy, weighed down, sick to his stomach. Fuck, his hands were shaking.

Everything he’d said—not the dirty stuff, that was fine—all the fucking emotional shit he had said kept playing in a loop in his head. He’d told Ian he was _perfect_. He’d asked Ian to _wait for him_. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

(And the worst part is, he’d meant it. He must have, or he wouldn’t have been able to say it. He can’t lie to Ian. Even if he wants to, even if he _needs_ to, he can’t.)

So, yeah. He’s been avoiding Ian since then. If he doesn’t see him, doesn’t talk to him, he won’t be able to make a fucking fool of himself in front of him.

None of which stops him from thinking about it, about his body, about the way he smiled as they lay tangled up together in Mickey’s bed. _Long as it takes,_ he’d said, eyes bright.

“Sorry,” Mickey mumbles, half to Ian, half to himself for not being stronger. He reaches down, grips himself in one hand, slips the other between his legs, brushing against his dry hole, remembering Ian’s dick, hot and hard, thrusting up against him. “Fuck. Sorry.”

 

The next morning, Ian’s morosely stocking the cooler with containers of ranch dip— _I forgot the dip,_ Mickey says bitchily in his head, and Ian hates himself for smiling at the memory—when it hits him.

Mickey’s still scared.

Ian remembers the look of fear on Mickey’s face after he’d blurted out his confession in the parking lot. Not embarassment. Not confusion, which Ian could have understood. _Fear._

And sure, he’d been into it when Ian had come charging into his bedroom. When they were around each other, they weren’t really sane. It was too much, too intense, at least for now. It was like being drunk, and blurting out everything that came into their heads, doing whatever crazy idea hit them.

The stuff Mickey had said—sure, he’d meant it, it had to have been the truth.

But that doesn’t mean he didn’t regret it afterward.

Ian feels a heavy weight in his stomach. That’s it. He knows it. Mickey regrets him. Regrets them. Unlike Ian, he probably does wish his soulmate had been a girl. It would be safer. Hell, maybe he likes girls better. It’s not like they really talked about it. They’d been too busy tearing each other’s clothes off.

But—the soft look on Mickey’s face as they lay next to each other. _This ain’t about you,_ he’d said. _You’re_  . . .

Perfect. Ian is perfect for him. Ian, who’s never been the best or the fastest or the smartest at anything. He’s perfect for Mickey.

And he’s going to prove it. Fuck that imaginary girl who Mickey probably wishes had been his soulmate. Ian can make Mickey feel safe, let Mickey have want he wants.

What they both want.

But it’s going to take some planning. He doesn’t want to go to Mickey’s house again. If he wants Mickey to feel safe with him, it’s not going to happen at the Milkovich house, not as long as his family could walk in on them at any second.

Ian’s room is, for similar reasons, out of the question.

For a second he looks around the cooler. But it seems like Kash never leaves these days, and the idea of Kash walking in on them is about the biggest boner killer Ian can imagine.

He’ll think of something. He has to.

 

Liam’s favorite places to hide when he’s tired or cranky or playing hide-and-seek are the living-room closet and the dryer.

But when Ian was his age, he liked to hide in the basement. Whenever Monica and Frank were back in the house on another bender, yelling and partying—then screaming and crying—he’d slip down the stairs and hide behind the abandoned boxes and piles of broken furniture and junk. There were narrow, high windows by the ceiling, level with the ground outside, that let in beams of sunlight, and Ian would lie on his back and watch the dust specks floating through the air.

He hasn’t really thought about the basement in years, other than as a place to throw stuff that might come in handy later.

But now he has a different reason to want to hide.

He heads over to the campus in Hyde Park and scavenges a couple of couch cushions and a green comforter (tacky, with a weird zigzag pattern, but almost new) from the curb outside one of the student apartment buildings, ignoring the weird looks he gets on the train ride back.

Smuggling them into the house without being seen is harder, but he pulls it off. He dumps the cushions and the blanket on the floor under the window farthest to the back. Then he rearranges the boxes, the dresser with three broken drawers, and the old bookcase from when they moved the third bed into their room for Carl, until he’s created a kind of wall between the cushions and the stairs.

Breathing hard and sweating a little, he stands back and studies his handiwork. It doesn’t look too suspicious. And anyway, no one comes down here unless Fiona sends them on a hunt for something, or something breaks.

As soon as he swipes a lamp from the dollar store, it’ll be perfect.

 

Phase 1 of his plan complete, Ian turns to the trickier step: actually getting Mickey to come to his house.

It’s not like he can just invite him over to hang out, since Mickey’s dodging him. He thinks about asking Mandy, but she’ll know something’s weird right away, since him and Mickey aren’t exactly best friends, and anyway, Mickey said he doesn’t want her to know about them.

(Ian tries to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that says it’s just because Mickey doesn’t think Ian’s worth the trouble that’ll come down on Mickey’s head if anyone finds out.)

There’s really only one other person in Ian’s life who would have a reason to talk to Mickey Milkovich.

 

“Lip,” Ian says between bites of cereal the next morning. “Can you tell Mickey you want to meet up and cut a deal with him after school today?”

“Uh, maybe,” says Lip. “Why would I want to do that, exactly?”

“He’s being a shithead to Mandy,” Ian says, which isn’t really a lie. Mickey’s a shithead to Mandy on a regular basis; it’s kind of their thing. “I told her I’d try to do something about it, but I’m not doing it at their place, not with his brothers around. I have to get him over here somehow.”

Lip slurps his milk, looking thoughtful. “I dunno, man, I feel like I already kind of fell on that grenade for you once, you know?” He rubs his mouth where Mickey had busted it up. It’s totally healed, _stop being a baby, Lip._

“I’ll steal your next ten packs of smokes from the Kash and Grab,” Ian offers, then winces internally. Ten is way too many. Lip’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah?” he says. “And what exactly are you planning on doing to Mickey that’s so important?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ian says, and smirks. Actually, Lip probably wouldn’t.

Lip considers for another minute while he dumps his bowl in the sink, and reaches down to fish out the spoon Carl stuck in the drain earlier.

“OK,” he says finally. “If I see him today, I’ll get him to come over. But I’m not gonna be here to take the fall, got it? You’re on your own this time.”

“Deal,” Ian says. “Thanks, Lip.”

“No problem,” says Lip. “Well, _your_ problem. Not mine.”

 

When Mickey sees Lip coming toward him, he instantly knows it isn’t good news.

“The fuck do you want?” he spits as soon as Lip is within speaking distance. Better to be on the offensive than the defensive, especially since he actually has no idea what Lip could possibly want.

Unless it’s something to do with—no. No way. No fucking way Ian would have told his smart-ass older brother about them, not when Mickey said he didn’t want anyone to know.

Mickey shifts uncomfortably as Lip gets closer, studying his face for any hint of a smirk or whatever the fuck kind of facial expression Lip would have if Ian had told him.

“And a fine afternoon to you too, Mr. Milkovich,” Lip says smarmily, taking the last drag of his cigarette and then flicking it away. “I’m running a scam on some fucking North Side college kids, but I need some actual product to make it stick. Can you hook me up?”

“Yeah, maybe,” says Mickey. “How much? And what’s the fucking catch?”

“Always so distrusting,” Lip says, smiling. “About a gram. No catch. Just bring it to my house after school, OK?”

“I don’t make fucking house calls,” Mickey says, but Lip just shrugs.

“You don’t make house calls, and I’m not walking around with a gram in my pocket when I’ve got a cop living next door. We all have our sticking points, right?”

Mickey makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, OK, Niagara Falls, turn off the waterworks. Your place, after school.” He jabs a finger at Lip. “If this is a fucking set up, I’m gonna pound your face so hard, you’re gonna wish you didn’t have one. Got it?”

“Fair enough,” Lip says with a nod, and then heads off down the street, looking not even a little intimidated. Do none of the fucking Gallaghers have survival instincts? Didn’t Mickey just flatten the guy’s face two weeks ago?

He shakes his head. It’s a good thing that him and Ian aren’t actually gonna be a thing, he thinks, ignoring the hitch and stutter in his heart that says otherwise. Because if he ever had to interact with Lip Gallagher on a daily basis, someone was gonna turn up dead in an alley.

 

Ian sits on the chair with the two busted legs, under the stairs outside. It’s hard not to feel creepy, waiting for Mickey like this—but on the other hand, he kind of _is_ being creepy. He’s luring Mickey here under false pretenses.

Maybe he should feel guilty for tricking him, but he’s so nervous, he can’t really think about anything else.

Anyway, Mickey brought this on himself, by avoiding him. Didn’t he?

Ian swings his legs back and forth, trying to kill his anxious energy. He thinks of the hideaway he’s made for them in the basement, and is suddenly, completely sure that Mickey is going to take one look at it and laugh in his face. He should go and fucking tear it all down, leave and pretend he never did any of this. Except then Lip would have to take the fall for him with Mickey, again. But who cares? Lip can deal. It was a stupid fucking idea, and Mickey is going to hate it, and . . .

And now it’s too late. Because Mickey is coming around the corner of the house, heading for the back door with a cranky look on his face.

It’s stupid, but seeing him again, Ian feels kind of breathless. Like Mickey’s punched him in the stomach. (Which he might be about to do for real in a minute, anyway.) But more than anything else, Ian can’t keep a grin off his face.

“Hey, Mickey,” he hears his mouth saying, and wow, yeah, he sounds totally dumb. No wonder Mickey doesn’t want him.

Mickey whips around, and his mouth drops open in shock. For a couple of seconds, his face is open and vulnerable, the fear from before battling with a look of disbelief—and maybe for a second, hope.

Then, as quickly as it came, it’s gone.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he snaps. “Where’s Lip?”

“I live here,” Ian fires back. That’s new—telling the truth, but not the truth Mickey’s asking for ( _I’m waiting for you._ ) “And Lip only asked to meet you here because I told him to.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says. “Well. Fine. The fuck you want from me?” He’s trying so hard to sound like his old tough-guy self, but Ian can see the way his eyes are flicking nervously around the backyard like he’s thinking of making a break for it, and the way he’s shifting from leg to leg.

“You know what I want,” Ian says, and he tries to say it hard and accusing, but shit, it’s impossible to keep the hurt out of his voice.

Mickey’s face softens a little. “Ian—” he says.

“I told you,” Ian blurts out. “I told you that it’s fine. I’ll wait. Whatever you need. Just . . .”

Mickey’s shaking his head, and Ian trails off. He feels sick to his stomach. If Mickey won’t even listen, won’t even let him try—

“Look,” Mickey says after a second. His face looks like the words are being torn out of him. Like he’s in physical pain. “Look, Ian, it’s not that I don’t want to. OK? It’s just—I can’t . . .” He can’t get the words out. Maybe even he doesn’t know what the truth is anymore.

“We _can_ ,” Ian says desperately. And then, because he just can’t help it, needs to hear it, needs to know that Mickey feels the same. “Don’t you want to?”

Mickey clenches his jaw, and his eyes are hard. “Ian. Don’t—don’t fuckin’—” _(Don’t make me say it, don’t use it against me like that.)_

“Sorry,” Ian says, breathless. “I’m sorry. But just—can you give me a chance? A chance to show you? Please?”

Mickey stares at him, his eyes wide and panicky.

Ian stares back, pleading. And slowly Mickey starts to soften.

“Please?” Ian says again.

Never taking his eyes off Ian, Mickey swallows, then finally gives a jerky nod.

Ian relaxes. He holds a hand out to Mickey, who looks at it like it’s a poisonous snake, then raises his eyebrows. _You kidding me?_

Chastened, Ian drops his arm and shrugs, then walks to the side of the house and pops open the window. He crouches down, grabs hold of the top of the window frame, swings his lower body through, then drops lightly onto the floor.

He turns around and looks up, seeing Mickey silhouetted in the window.

“Some reason we can’t just go in the door?” Mickey asks.

“C’mon, I’ll show you!” Ian says.

Mickey makes another cranky face, then grabs the side of the window and scrambles down, managing to hit his elbow on the bottom of the frame.

“Fuck!” he says, hitting the ground. Ian can’t hold back a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Chuckles,” Mickey says, but he smiling just a little.

Then he stops and looks around, studying the stuff Ian’s dragged down here. Ian gnaws on his lip nervously, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

“What _is_ all this?” Mickey says, and he’s not mad. He’s . . . confused? And smiling again, maybe.

Fuck it. Ian’s going for it.

“I wanted us to have somewhere,” he says. “Somewhere we can just . . . be. Us. Together.” His heart is pounding like crazy, and he can’t seem to look away from Mickey’s face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking.

“Huh,” Mickey says. And he flicks a sideways look at Ian, sly. “Together. And what exactly were you thinking we’d do together, down here?”

If someone had told Ian two weeks ago that Mickey Milkovich was able to flirt, he’d have said they were fucking nuts.

“Make out a lot, hopefully,” Ian blurts. Oh. Shit.

But Mickey just lets out a burst of startled laughter. Shit. He has a beautiful laugh, and Ian starts smiling and he can’t stop.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey says.

“Yeah.” And before Ian can say anything else, Mickey’s grabbing at Ian’s coat, dragging it off, pushing him toward the couch cushions on the floor, and it is just like his dream, except better, because it’s really Mickey, not just some version of him that Ian’s brain cobbled together. It’s him, staring at Ian with his eyes wide and excited, breathing hard, his hands tugging Ian’s shirt off.

Ian does the same to Mickey, running his hands up and down his sides first, then pulling his shirt over his head. It makes Mickey’s hair stick up weirdly on the side, and Ian reaches out to ruffle it, but Mickey ducks him, waving an arm.

“Hands off, this ain’t a scratch-and-sniff.”

“That’s good,” Ian says. “Since showering doesn’t seem to be high on your morning to-do list.”

“What, you got a problem with the way I smell?” Mickey challenges him. But he actually looks a little worried.

Ian thinks about it for a second, then realizes it doesn’t matter if he tries to spare Mickey’s feelings. Whatever he thinks is gonna come out, anyway.

“I can see why it bothers other people,” he says. “I guess it’s kind of gross sometimes. But I think maybe I like it. It just smells like . . . you.”

Mickey blinks at him.

“Sorry,” Ian says. He can feel himself blushing. “I guess that’s weird.”

“Whatever,” Mickey mumbles. He looks like he’s trying to cover his embarrassment by eyeing Ian’s stomach with appreciation. Their first time, they had just touched each other anywhere they could reach, desperately. Now that they’re actually talking and stuff, it feels kind of awkward.

Tentatively, Ian reaches out and hooks his fingers through the belt loops of Mickey’s jeans, tugging him closer, closer, until he can feel Mickey’s hot breath brushing against his cheek, the warmth of Mickey’s chest almost touching his own.

He stares at Mickey’s body for a minute. The bare skin, strangely delicate and vulnerable looking. His chest is broader than Ian’s, probably. The muscles don’t stand out much in his stomach, but he’s still really solid-looking, somehow. Without thinking, Ian drags his hand up and presses his fingers against Mickey’s stomach. Mickey tenses under his touch, but Ian keeps moving his fingers up, barely grazing the flesh of his pecs, then brushing one of his nipples.

Mickey sucks in a breath at that, and his eyes snap up, meeting Ian’s startled gaze.

It’s only for a few seconds, but Ian can’t look away. He feels hypnotized by Mickey’s stare, the wonder and the fear in his eyes.

Mickey lifts his hand, slides it around the back of Ian’s neck, and leaves it there, heavy and hot. It feels . . . good. Right.

Their faces are close, and Ian can feel Mickey staring at his mouth.

“Um,” Ian says softly, hyperaware of the movement of his lips.

Mickey stares silently for another second. He’s breathing so hard, he’s almost panting. Then, abruptly, like if he doesn’t do it now, he never will, he leans forward and presses his mouth against Ian’s.

They stay like that for a second, Mickey’s mouth hard and hot, an unrelenting pressure. Ian gets just a taste of him—instantly wants more—and then Mickey breaks away, his breathing even louder and harsher than before.

“Sorry,” he says after a second, but his eyes are still fixed on Ian’s mouth, which feels red and bruised.

“Why?” Ian says, and he doesn’t even mind how breathless he sounds. “I want it.”

“No, I just—I haven’t done that. With anyone. So, sorry. If it’s bad. Or whatever.”

“It’s not,” Ian whispers, and puts a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, nudges him to lie down on his side, then lies down next to him, shoved up close against his body. “It’s not bad. It’s good. I . . .” He trails off, lost in looking at Mickey’s face. He licks his own lips a couple of times.

Mickey lets out a sigh, and presses even closer, so his mouth is almost touching Ian’s, but not quite.

“I want it to be good,” he says, so softly that Ian can barely hear from an inch away. “I want to be good. For you.”

“You—” Ian starts to say, but he can’t even finish the thought before he leans in to kiss Mickey on the lips, gently. He lets the kiss break after a second, looks at Mickey. His eyes have drifted shut, and his breath is still coming fast.

Ian leans in again, opens his mouth against Mickey’s, slides his lower lip down, drags it back up. It’s barely even a kiss, more of a touch.

Mickey lets out a whimper in the back of his throat, and it’s probably the hottest thing Ian has ever heard.

He pulls back just enough that he can breath, but their mouths are still almost touching. Ian can feel Mickey’s breath, hear it when he swallows thickly.

“C’mon, don’t stop,” Mickey says, and Ian rocks forward and kisses him again, a little harder.

Mickey seems to enjoy that, presses forward into it with his whole body, his skin hot and kind of sweaty where his chest touches Ian’s. Then he pulls back for a second and just breathes.

“You OK?” Ian says, running a hand up Mickey’s bare arm, rubbing gently with his thumb. Mickey’s eyes have drifted shut again, and Ian wonders if he’s scared him off.

“Uh,” says Mickey. “I don’t—yeah. It’s good. It’s really . . .” He reaches down and adjusts himself in his jeans, but can’t try to hide that he’s hard.

Ian laughs and reaches for Mickey’s zipper. “What? It’s not like we haven’t already done it.”

Mickey opens his eyes and finally looks at Ian. He seems—dazed.

“Yeah,” he says, half out of it. “Yeah. Uh—” Ian reaches down and wraps his hand around Mickey, and Mickey sucks in a breath and grabs at Ian’s arm for support, like he’s never been touched.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, and Ian grins again. He can do this. He’s good at it. And he can make it good for Mickey, so good that Mickey won’t be able to forget. Won’t be able to walk away from him again.

“What?” he says to Mickey. “No one else ever do this for you?”

Mickey makes a face. “Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he says, and swallows again. “Of course I’ve gotten a fucking handjob before.”

“Really?” says Ian. “Because you’re not acting like it.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Mickey hisses, as Ian’s hand tightens around him. “It’s . . . better with you,” he says, all in a rush.

“Yeah?” says Ian, pleased.

“God yeah,” Mickey mumbles, his eyes closed, looking lost in the feeling. He’s still gripping Ian’s upper arm with one hand, but now he slides the other down between his own legs. “You got any lube in this secret hideout, Gallagher?”

Ian blinks. “Uh . . .”

“Wait. Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Mickey says.

“Sorry!” Ian says defensively. “I was kind of trying not to jinx it or whatever. You don’t have anything?”

Mickey throws him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, I bring lube to all my drug deals.” He makes a face. “Look, man. You're not fucking me without lube, OK? Not gonna happen. But there's other stuff we can do."

"Yeah?" Ian says, breathless.

"Yeah," Mickey says, pressing two of his fingers against Ian’s mouth. “Here, suck ’em, get ’em wet.”

Ian opens his mouth and lets Mickey push his fingers in, then closes it and starts sucking. He tries to keep working Mickey’s cock, but the warm, salty taste of his skin is distracting. Ian shuts his eyes, focusing on the sensation, on all the places their bodies are touching right now.

When he opens his eyes again, Mickey is staring at him, his mouth hanging open a little. He’s staring at his lips again. Ian gives an extra-hard suck, and scrapes his teeth down Mickey’s fingers.

Mickey groans. His cock jerks in Ian’s hand, and it’s so hot that Ian has to open his mouth, let Mickey’s fingers slide out wetly, so he can moan in response.

“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey mutters, and reaches back, working his fingers against his hole. He barely stretches himself open, but it must be enough, because his other hand tightens, then slides up to Ian’s neck and drags him down into a wet, shaky kiss as his cock jerks again between the two of them, and he comes hard in Ian’s hand, gasping.

Ian can feel his own cock, hard and heavy in his jeans, pulsing at the sight. He wipes his hand clean against the comforter, and then scrabbles at his own jeans, yanking the zipper down, sighing with relief.

Mickey’s eyes snap open, and he’s staring at Ian’s dick with a look of open hunger.

“Can I?” he says softly, but he’s already moving, sliding his way down, his hands on Ian’s stomach, pushing his T-shirt up.

“You want it?” Ian asks. He wants to hear him say it so much, almost as much as he wants him to do it.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, letting out a breath that Ian feels against his skin. “Wanna suck your dick.”

Ian shivers at the words, feels them in his stomach, in his groin, making him harder.

“Fucking do it, then,” he says.

Turns out his dream was selling Mickey short.

 

Mickey stretches out, naked, against the scratchy fabric of the comforter that Gallagher stole or begged or whatever, and then reaches down to find his jeans, looking for his smokes.

“Think anyone will notice?” he asks Ian as he lights up.

“Nah,” Ian says, and holds out his hand for a drag. “Lip smokes in the house all the time.”

“’Kay,” Mickey says, and blows out the smoke, lying flat against the cushions to watch it curl and fade in the sunlight coming through the windows. “You know, this was a decent fucking idea, Gallagher. I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s more roaches down here than a Motel 6, but fuck it, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper.” He grimaces. “Just bring some fucking lube next time, all right? ’Cause that thing”—he gestures at Ian’s dick—“isn’t getting anywhere near my ass without it.”

“Fuck you, buy your own, if you’re so worried about it,” Ian fires back, but Mickey saw his eyes light up at the words _next time_.

“I’ll steal some from your fucking boyfriend,” Mickey grumbles, and Ian grabs his arm. “Jesus, what, Gallagher?”

“Are you kidding?” Ian says. “He’s not my boyfriend, I’m not fucking him, I don’t want him.” Mickey raises an eyebrow, waits. “Not anymore,” Ian corrects himself automatically. “Not since—”

“Yeah, yeah, OK, settle down there, choir boy,” Mickey says. “No one asked for fucking confession hour.” But he can’t deny the smug feeling of satisfaction in his chest at knowing it—hearing it from Ian’s own mouth, and knowing that it’s true.

“I want _you_ , Mickey,” Ian says, and the earnestness in his voice is almost painful. Mickey closes his eyes, says nothing for a second. He can feel Ian breathing hard. “Don’t you want me?”

Mickey tries not to answer, but it’s useless.

“You know I do,” he says, as softly as he can. Fuck. _Fuck._ It hurts to say it, to hear it out loud in his own traitorous fucking voice.

“We can have this, Mick,” Ian says, so sure, so fucking sure. But just because he believes it’s true, just because he’s not lying, doesn’t mean he’s right. “We can, OK?”

“I wanna believe you,” Mickey says. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not yet. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. _Hey_ ,” Ian says, and Mickey can’t help it. He opens his eyes, turns to look.

“We’re here, right now,” Ian says, and he touches the side of Mickey’s face. “OK? This is us.” His eyes are bright.

“OK,” Mickey says, and fuck, he can feel a lump in the back of his throat.

Ian looks at him for another second, then leans in and kisses him, soft but kind of dirty. A promise. And maybe just to show that he can. Mickey breathes into it, wraps his hand around Ian’s arm and squeezes hard.

“Thanks,” he says, after they’ve broken apart, their mouths still just a couple of inches apart.

“No problem,” Ian says with a dumb smile.

“You’re still getting the lube, though,” Mickey says after a second, and then ducks as Ian tries to smack him up alongside the head.

“Fuck you!”

“Ow! Nope, don’t fuck me! No slick, no dick, Gallagher!”

“I wish I could say I can’t believe you just said something that dumb,” Ian says, shaking his head.

“But?” Mickey says with a grin.

“But I’d be fucking lying, you loser.” Ian’s laugh is probably one of the nicest things Mickey’s ever heard.

No lie.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't much similarity (since our premises are so different), but I think the seed of the idea of Ian and Mickey shacking up in the Gallagher basement can be credited to Jinko's awesome fic [Love Nest](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1082220).


End file.
